


A Galaxy's Survival: Memoirs of an Officer in the Systems Alliance Navy

by Sorcha_Drochaid



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Memoirs, SSV Normandy, Systems Alliance, Systems Alliance Navy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 11:25:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7638232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorcha_Drochaid/pseuds/Sorcha_Drochaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mass Effect in the style of a 19th Century Royal Navy officer's memoirs. So... Hornblower in space!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Galaxy's Survival: Memoirs of an Officer in the Systems Alliance Navy

**Author's Note:**

> I have been rereading David Feintuch's Seafort Saga and replaying Mass Effect (finally feeling strong enough) and a bit of a mashed-up mess happened in my head. 
> 
> I have obviously utterly made up loads of details, particularly the business with ranks and promotion. BioWare were really not AT ALL clear about ranks and how they work and I was all over the internet trying to figure it out but I lost the will pretty quickly. Same goes for officer training. I don't really understand how any of that works either, so, as this is a mishmash and a nonsense, I have fudged the narrator's officer training and very loosely based it (read: pulled out of the air) on the Royal Navy and on Seafort. (Look at me frantically explaining something that is mentioned in literally ONE paragraph, lol.)

My family has served in various navies in one capacity or another for over 300 years, dating back to Morag "Jock" McKinnon who disguised herself as a boy to enlist in the Royal Navy in 1853. I allow myself the conceit of believing we can boast one of the longest unbroken traditions of military service in human history.

  
As has become customary, being of Scottish descent, we have tended to find ourselves in Engineering or Intelligence positions, and have, for the most part, been exceptionally proud to conform to the stereotype. My father, Chief Engineer of the SSV Stavanger and proud Aberdonian, always maintained that nobody understands an engine like a Scotsman. My mother, a highly senior Intelligence Officer, formerly of the same vessel and proud Invernesian, always maintained that he had the saying wrong and that in fact went more along the lines of "nobody understands an Aberdonian, why are you still talking dear, don't you have some bolts to play with?"

  
My late grandmother, a resourceful and fascinating person, served in an intelligence-gathering position (a position, I might add, upon which she resolutely refused to elaborate) under General Williams for the better part of a decade, culminating in the infamous incident at Shanxi. Family legend has it that my grandmother's younger brother was one of the very last humans killed before the surrender. My grandmother left military service shortly after this, but she was always a very vocal supporter of General Williams, maintaining that his decision saved countless lives and there was nothing he could have done differently.

  
The weight of tradition is considerable, and possessing no desire to fly entirely in the face of some 300 years of history, it was almost inevitable that I too should have a career in naval service. However, I had ambition to command, and perhaps to eventually captain my own ship, and so, breaking with family custom, I laid out my plans to become an officer of the line. My father was naturally disappointed, as he had often expressed a desire that I should follow in his footsteps as an engineer. Fortunately, he soon recovered at the thought of a potential Captain in the family.

  
And so it was that, after completing my tertiary education (Joint BA in Terralinguistics and Xenolinguistics at Edinburgh) I applied to join the Alliance Navy on my 21st birthday. I went through the usual screening and interview process, scoring just slightly lower in the physical testing than I would have liked due to an unfortunately-timed knee injury, and within a month took up my place at Dartmouth. (I always appreciated the fact that the Alliance maintained various historic centres such as Admiralty House, Faslane, and my own training centre, Dartmouth).

  
If memory serves, despite the intense, nay, savage pressure of the officer training programme, I studied considerably less and socialised considerably more during this time than I had done during my time at Edinburgh. My fellow officer candidates and I found ourselves with a surprising amount of time on our hands. We would take regular walks down to the Docks and quiz each other on obscure and esoteric details about the various ships we observed there, all the while dreaming of wondrous and certain futures where we commanded ships of our own. Those days spent dreaming with my fellows, all of us Captains in our own minds, are among the happiest of my life.

  
I will admit to a certain amount of shock and no small amount of awe that despite the drinking, dreaming, and the occasional bit of dancing, I recall that I was well prepared by everyone involved in my training and had little trouble passing the required examinations. That is not to say that I did particularly well, I in fact graduated somewhere around the upper middle of my class, but I performed well enough combined with my language skills to secure a decent posting.

  
Upon graduating from officer training, I was posted to the SSV Trangmar as 2nd Lieutenant. My first weeks aboard were somewhat trying, of course, but I do not believe I suffered any more or less than the average amount of hazing that the FNG, even an officer, can hope to expect. I spent 2 years aboard the Trangmar where our mission was nominally Peacekeeping in the Skyllian Verge. It has been long enough now that I can say that I had my suspicions about the true nature of our mission, but not long enough that I can reveal what those suspicions were. Suffice to say, I believe we were involved in considerably more than we let on. Suspicions aside, my time aboard the Trangmar was relatively uneventful (despite the fairly lawless nature of the region) but I had acquitted myself well enough to earn a promotion to 1st Lieutenant.

  
As the Trangmar already possessed the requisite number of 1st Lieutenants, I would be transferred out to a new ship at the end of my 2 year posting. When the time came, I packed up my gear, said my farewells, and disembarked with a spring in my step, looking forward to the fresh challenges a new ship would bring.

  
I spent a further two years posted aboard the SSV Pimlico, during which time I saw a little more in the way of combat, and experienced for the first time the loss of a friend under my direct command. I remain unconvinced to this day that one ever truly recovers from such things. One merely trains oneself to live with them.

  
The remainder of my time on the Pimlico was fairly routine, with little out of the ordinary to report. There was the curious and amusing incident of the two junior marines and the Captain's favourite woolly socks, but I will not relate that here.

  
I recall that it was with a heavier heart that I disembarked this ship for the last time (I had made a few close friends and was sorry to leave them) and set off for a little shore leave while I awaited my new orders.

  
Within a week of disembarking, I received notice of my new posting:

>   
>  _You are hereby required and directed to repair on board SSV Normandy, currently docked at the Citadel, and report yourself on 2nd February_.

  
Those words, etched permanently onto my soul, not only changed my small life, but marked a beginning of events that would change the fate of the galaxy.

  
As my gear was already prepared from my last voyage and I required nothing else, I departed in a leisurely manner to meet my transport. Little did I know, blissfully ignorant young person that I was, what galaxy-rending horrors lay in store.


End file.
